Going Home
by lamentomori
Summary: Frustration and rising dissatisfaction with his career causes Punk to decide to to go home, seeking refuge with his best friend. (7 Sins continuity) Warnings: Slash 2nd person Colt PoV, slash (Colt/Punk), smut, kind of maudlin, regular & recurring appearances by AJ Lee, implied het.
1. Homecoming

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin.

* * *

Waking up from a nap is at once an incredibly pleasant and incredibly disconcerting feeling; the transition from awake to asleep to awake can throw your entire day. You hadn't really needed this nap and really, you _should _switch the TV on. Raw will be on soon and you find yourself watching it out of habit, you can never tell when you'll end up trending thanks to Punkers and it's nice to have a heads up. Raw however is curiously Punk free. You've not heard from him, not had a single message since the Rumble. You assume that the new girlfriend is keeping him busy though. He's always down in Florida these days; you had an unreasonably good time teasing him about that bruise on his thigh. You think it's probably worth trying to remember her name, she seems kind of likely to be long-term, your bet with Ace pegs her as long-term at least. Ace is more cynical but he's been burned with bets too many times before, you were both horribly wrong with Amy, your mom on the other hand was spot-on. You get the feeling you will eternally regret that your mother somehow managed to get herself in on the Punk's girlfriend bets; she's a shark.

After Raw you intended to go to bed, what happened was you fell back asleep and are currently waking up from another nap on the sofa.

"Oww." Your floor generally doesn't complain when you step on it.

"The fuck you doing on the floor, Punkers?" You look down at him in the dull, bluish light of the TV.

"You were taking up the sofa." His voice is oddly toneless and you're calling bullshit. Punkers ends up on the floor for one of two reasons. One, he's too tired to make it to bed and two, he's in pain, be it physical or emotional.

"Where's the girlfriend?" It's your first thought, he looks at you mildly unimpressed, eyebrow raised.

"Working." Well, that's helpfully vague; you think but decide against pushing him on the subject.

"What you doing here?" You ask instead, his unimpressed expression melting into the most miserable one you've ever seen. "Shouldn't you be on the road?" He looks away from you, towards the TV screen you're certain he can't see.

"I quit." You laugh at him, that's ridiculous but he shakes his head, looking painfully serious and suddenly the whole situation feels mildly surreal. "I can't take their shit anymore." He sighs and sits up slowly, resting his head against your knee, wrapping his arms around your shin. It's an automatic reaction to start stroking his messy hair.

"Punkers." You start but fall silent, you've no idea what to say to him, it's rare he's this solemn and subdued; every time you've seen him lately, he's been a bristling ball of fury or in the company of the new girlfriend. She's a good enough influence on him, cheerful, focused, tries her best to stop him from brooding but sometimes there's nothing that anyone can do for him. Those are the times he's sent to you. You're certain that he comes with a 'Caring for your Punk' instruction manual and that you're listed as the solution to most problems. It's something the new girlfriend joked with you about, that if they had any issues, she was just sending him to you to fix. You get the feeling this might be why he's here. "What's going on?" He nuzzles against your knee; you can feel his breath against your skin, soft and warm.

"I can't do this anymore. I work my ass off for them and this is what I get. I destroy everything for them, my life, my relationships, myself and then fucking Dave gets my spot. Fuck them." You sigh softly, you're not sure what to say to make this better and settle for messing up his hair some more. "I'm tired, Colt, so fucking tired."

"Punkers." He sighs again and curls around even further around your legs.

"Sick and tired, Scott." It rather feels like he's trying to merge himself with you, like he's attempting to hide from the World against your legs. "I'm done." You can't think of anything reasonable to say to him, you can't quite believe that he would just quit. He's hot-tempered, he's impulsive but quitting, it feels so unlike him, to just roll over and quit. Quitting isn't him, leaving, walking away, getting rid of the negative aspects of his life in spectacular fashion, yes but to give up? Life has taught Punkers that the only person he can ever really make happy is himself so he has a tendency to act in a manner that seems overtly self-serving, you don't think that he is quite as self-centred as he seems but you are perhaps biased and quitting, you can't process this, you truly can't.

"It'll be okay." You mutter at length and then fall silent, quietly stroking his hair and trying to think of something more meaningful to say. You want some kind of grand verbal gesture to prompt him into explaining himself more but you can't think of a single thing. You aren't sure how long you sit together in silence, your hand moving through his hair, his face pressed against your knee so much like he's hiding, his breath against your skin and his arms squeezing your leg tightly. Eventually, you stand, disturbing him from where he was curled up and dozing.

"C'mon Phil." You head towards to the door to your bedroom, words are failing you tonight, in the morning, you'll try and make sense of his tangled mind, try and work out if he's being ridiculous or reasonable. He stands, scrubbing at his eyes, his hair a fluffy mess; he takes your offered hand and leans against you, his weight warm and familiar. You wrap your arms about him firmly, squeezing him tight. "Let's go to sleep."

Once you're both in bed, he curls up in a little ball, his back to you, you wrap yourself around him, moulding yourself to his back and he catches your arms, tugs them tight around himself. "It'll be okay." You mutter again into his hair and he makes an odd noise, something small, soft and not quite sad. You're beginning to question who you're reassuring here, he seems less like he needs reassurance and more like he needs shelter, somewhere to hide for a while. You can only imagine the mess of the internet, the noise the marks will be making, is it a work, is it legit, has Punk really, in the time-honoured tradition of Stone Cold Steve Austin taken his ball and gone home? You squeeze him tightly and press a kiss to the back of his head, he lies still in your arms, stroking your skin, it's gently soothing and you feel sleep sneak up on you.

You're awoken by his phone, habit makes him stash it under the pillow, if you're honest you do this too, you never know when Punkers might want a three a.m. conversation, a hazard of your best friend status with him. He squirms in your arms and you let him go to flop onto your back.

"Is it important?" The harsh light from his cell lights up his features oddly, whatever it is he looks even more miserable. "Is it Ace?" He shakes his head. "The girlfriend?" _Name_, you're going to have to remember that one, another shake. "Your sisters? Mom? Anyone _important_?" Another shake of his head so you grab his cell from him and toss it to where you're certain the pile of clothes you both shed is, he looks at you mildly concerned for his cell, a soft frown on his face. "C'mere." You pull him to you and engulf him in your arms, holding him close to your chest. "Sleep." You kiss his hair again and he lays still, a thread of tension in him, you stroke the skin of his back and feel him _trying_ to relax, trying but failing. "What?" You ask him softly and he moves, propping himself over you, looking down at you, he's trying for a closed and distant expression but he can't manage it with you, you know him, inside and out. He's your _best_ friend, more than your friend, more than your brother, more than any mere word could describe. You love him, he loves you and whilst you decidedly aren't _in_ love with him, there's very little you wouldn't do for him, there's no doubt in you that you _love_ him. He can't hide from you, not physically, not mentally and certainly not emotionally. "What?" You ask again, stroking his face and hating every single sad little line around his eyes, the bags under them and soul deep misery in them. He shakes his head slightly and kisses you softly. You return the kiss, refusing to let him deepen it, refusing to let this become more, he doesn't need it, not right now, maybe in the morning but for now he needs rest.

"Thanks." He says as he settles back against your chest, his forehead against your chin in a mildly awkward and uncomfortable fashion, you chuckle softly and squeeze him.

"S'okay, Punkers. Go to sleep." He moves slightly, presses a soft kiss to your jaw line and squirms down to tuck his head beneath your chin; you feel one of his hands clutching at the fabric of your sleep shirt, the mess of his soft hair feels slightly tickly against your skin.

"I'll explain better tomorrow." He sounds so very tired and you can feel a spark of anger building in you, this broken down man is _not _your best friend. Sometimes you wonder if the pride he feels for you and your empire isn't coloured with jealousy, he might have been living the dream with the WWE but it was destroying him, has possibly completely _ruined_ his love for professional wrestling. You might be on the hustle, wrestling in no name towns, selling your own merch and booking your own jobs but at least you're in charge, at least you don't look as thoroughly weary, at least you still love wrestling. "G'night Colt." He presses another quick kiss to your jaw and you squeeze him as tight as you can, silently trying to let him know that no matter how little or how much he chooses to explain to you, you understand, you care, you love him and will support him. You kiss his hair and squeeze him again.

"G'night Punkers."

* * *

Happy New Year everyone... Though with the current news, I can't see how.

I hope it's a work but if Punk really is gone, then we've lost so much and I hope he can enjoy his retirement as much as I will mourn him.


	2. Make yourself at Home

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin, brief mentions of AJ Lee.

* * *

The next morning you're woken by your cell, an insistent buzzing that makes you want to launch the damn thing against the wall. Punkers didn't move after he fell asleep last night, he's still tucked up safe and sound, laying half on top of you, fast asleep, utterly undisturbed by your alarm. It surprises you, usually any alarm will have him jolting awake, grouchy, groggy and desperate to go back to sleep. You manage to dig your cell phone from under the pillow without waking him. You curse the fact you forgot to switch off your alarm, the urge to launch your cell at the wall is still there but you refrain when you notice the sheer volume of missed calls and texts you have. You decide that the greatest thing Apple have ever invented is _do not disturb_ mode. There's really only a few texts that you need to reply to, the simple ones, the ones that merely ask if he's okay. You're not certain you can answer that fully but you know that they are relying on you to keep them up to date. Your reply is vague; _he's with me, _is as accurate and non-specific as you can make it and for the important people it will be answer enough.

When he wakes up, he trades lying in your bed for lying on the living room floor, staring apathetically at daytime television. You think you should be concerned with his apparent obsession with shows about storage auctions, although it does appeal to the hustler in you. You briefly wonder if he's decided to become one of these auction people instead of a wrestler, he seems to be devoted to staring at the screen, maybe he's gathering tips. New profession or not, you really should be getting on with recording the intro for the podcast and whilst it's strangely fascinating finding out what's in the storage units, it's not helping you get on with your work. You get off the sofa, carefully stepping around Punkers and drag the recording equipment to the table, setting it up and considering his prone form. You enjoy recording intros with Punkers, it strangely reminds you of your youth, sitting around in cheap hotel rooms talking shit and laughing at nothing, he looks so miserable, like he needs to laugh at nothing for a while. He will refuse but you ask him anyway.

"You wanna help me?" He turns from the screen and stares up at you balefully.

"No." His voice dry and clipped.

"Aww, c'mon, I'm sure the adoring IWC would love to hear your thoughts on the Rumble." You smile down at him, he's not explained or expanded on his _I quit_ from last night and you'd rather like some answers or some sort of clarification, getting him talking might encourage him to be more forthcoming with information.

"I don't have any thoughts on it." He mutters turning away from you and watching the TV again.

"Bullshit, Punkers." You lean over and turn his face back to you. "What's going on?" You keep your hand on his cheek, stopping him from looking away.

"I'm done, I quit, I don't care. Lemme go, Cabana." He won't look you in the eye and you sigh, you know better than to push him, he'll give you what he thinks you need to know, when he thinks you need to know it. You record the intro quickly, it feels rushed and mildly unenthusiastic but it's done and you can get on with editing, headphones on so he can keep researching his new career in peace. After maybe ten minutes of you working, he shifts, sits up, resting his head against your knee, one arm around your legs, stroking your ankle, still riveted by the TV. You absently stroke his hair a few times before getting on with your work, editing is tedious and dull but you learnt to do it for a reason. You want to be able to rely on yourself, its nice knowing that if you _have_ to, you can give it to someone else to do but you want to be as DIY as possible. He's fallen back asleep by the time you finish, his arm still around your legs, his head still against your knee. You slip the headphones off and consider changing channel, you're not sure how many more episodes of this crap you can take and he's asleep, it's not like he'd notice. Your cell starts ringing and you grab it, answering quickly to keep from waking him.

"_Hey, Colt_." The girlfriend, you slightly regret not looking at the caller id before answering, even if her name isn't stored there, it would have prepared you for talking to her. Punkers' revolving door of girlfriends all get entered under the same contact name until they last more than three months, this one is getting close to the mark, you're going to need to remember her name soon.

"Uh, hi." You hear her laugh softly. You carefully get off the sofa and go stand in the hall, closing the door quietly behind you.

"_Cabana, do you even know my name_?" You make a vague noise and feel mildly embarrassed, rubbing at the back of your neck with your free hand. "_I'll give you a clue, it's a month_." April! You feel depressingly proud at remembering that.

"Of course I know your name, O'Neil." You hope she'll get the reference, Amy would have and you really don't want to start comparing Punkers' girlfriends because none of the newer ones give him cupcakes like Nate did and that makes them all inferior.

"_Ha_,_ how is Leonardo, then Michelangelo_?" You laugh quietly, glad she got what you meant, it puts you one-step closer to the $20.

"Can't I be Raphael?" You know you're whining but really, you're sure you're better than the comedy relief.

"_Nope, you're so Michelangelo._" She's definitely laughing at you, amusement plain in her voice.

"Leo's asleep." You can perhaps see her point on Raphael, if anything that _might_ be Joe. "How about Donatello?" You're not sure you would be able to claim to be the brains of the operation or able to pull off purple but orange isn't your colour either.

"_Let it go, Mikey. Has he spoken to Splinter yet_?" She asks you, you can hear the smile in her voice, she _may_ have a point and at least you'll get the majority of the pizza and have the coolest weapons, unless Punkers gets sword-chucks because there is _nothing_ cooler than those.

"Not yet." She sighs and you can hear the concern in that little huff of air. "He's been asleep. Don't worry, O'Neil, everyone who needs to know how he is, knows."

"_Kay, tell Leo, I'll be back when Krang lets me go_." She hangs up and you find yourself shaking your head, that $20 is yours, you're sure of it. You re-enter the living room and settle back on the sofa, he's still slumped where you left him, though his eyes are open now, still staring at the TV.

"When's O'Neil's birthday?" You ask him, your hand ruffling his hair, in response he merely shrugs.

"March some time. Why?" It somehow fails to surprise you that he knows who you're talking about straight away.

"Good, plenty of time to find a yellow jumpsuit." You mutter and purposefully stroke his ear, he snaps at you and you're certain that's the most active he's been since you stepped on him last night.

"I get to be Shredder?" He asks you, clambering up onto the sofa, lying down with his head in your lap, face turned to the TV.

"Leonardo." You tell him, running your fingers through his hair; he makes a soft, noncommittal noise.

"What she want?" He still sounds so very wrong, so unlike Punkers should, tired, weary and lost in place of fire, sarcasm and vinegar.

"Advising us we don't need a rescue plan, she can break free of Krang's clutches herself." He glances at you, a slight smile on his face, small though it is, it's the first smile he's worn in hours and you can't help smiling back.

"Good, I'm comfy, Mikey, don't wanna move." He settles back down, facing the TV watching for a few minutes before grabbing the remote. "Why the fuck were you watching that shit, Cabana?" He starts clicking through the channels, far too quickly to see what's on any of them but he _always _does that, he's not so much looking for something to watch as trying to make the TV match the kaleidoscope of thoughts in his head. You shake your head and absently start stroking his hair, he seems more like himself right now, perhaps sometime before O'Neil gets here, you might have some answers for everyone important, something beyond _he's with me_.

* * *

**littleone1389**: A little more to this, as I mentioned there might. :3

**alizabethianrose**: This whole situation is painfully sad... I so want it to be a work but I'm getting more and more certain it isn't. :(

**EmbraceLove**:I did try to pour my feelings about the situation into this... though I didn't mean to make you tear up! I'm sorry...

_I hadn't really intended to write more of this but I did... There might be some more to go with this, I make no promises if I have time there might be more, who knows... not me._

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	3. Home is where the Heart is

Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, the maudlin air that permeates this whole thing.

* * *

You have concluded that you hate TMZ, him leaving the WWE broke a few hours ago. TMZ's concept of what is and isn't a source close to the situation is rather different to yours, you think, really you want to know their sources because the man himself has said very little on the matter. He's essentially done _nothing_ but sleep in your apartment since Monday night. You're a patient man when it comes to Punkers; you always wait him out, as long as necessary but this is getting excessive. He's back on the floor, which is irritating because yesterday he'd progressed to your lap and now his head is on a pillow that he's placed over your feet, curled up on his side, watching new and exciting shit TV. You think that you might prefer the storage auctions to Mexican soaps, hell; you'd be absolutely delighted with _Buttons through the Ages_, right about now. He silenced his cell when he woke up and left it lying on the coffee table, where it's been buzzing like a hive of bees with constant messages and calls since about 9 a.m. You want to smash the damn thing if only to stop the insistent buzzing, it's driving you mad. He seems to be steadfastly ignoring it and watching something, you've given up even trying to pay attention to it. You're feeling rather antsy, trapped even, you're sure you've never felt this way in his company, sure, you've felt uncomfortable around him before but it's never been over something like this, never over work, never over wrestling.

"You wanna go for a run, Punkers?" You can't take the sitting around anymore, you need out of here but he shakes his head and keeps staring at the screen. You leave him be and go for a run.

You take your usual route, the pathways through the park familiar in the face of the peculiarity in your apartment. You've seen him close to this mood before, 2011 was a dark time for him, for all you wanted him to take your dreidel's advice, for all you think he was a least _vaguely_ happy at times, over the last few years he's seemed as frustrated and annoyed with his job as ever. To be the man, you have to beat the man but Punk, he never got close to that, he might have had the belt but he was never _the man_, he was the mid-card Champion extraordinaire. You know it annoyed him, you know it infuriated him and somehow this quitting, this walking out is still a surprise. You'd thought, hoped, he'd work till the end of his contract, he's not a quitter but he's not one to stay in a situation he believes he can't improve, either. Your thought process is annoyingly circular right now and running isn't helping clear your head so you give up.

When you get back home, he's on the floor, it doesn't look as if he's moved at all and the TV is still playing soaps.

"You okay?" With a sigh, you lean against the door jab, watching him carefully; he nods but doesn't turn to look at you. "Gonna go shower." You mutter vaguely, hoping to spur some kind of reaction from him but he gives you nothing, you shake your head, resignation settling over you. "Okay." You head to the bathroom, clicking though your cell. You want to shake the maudlin creature in the lounge; he'd seemed a little better yesterday, a little more himself after you'd spoken to O'Neil. Fuck TMZ, fuck the Internet, fuck speculation and the constant buzzing of his cell phone. Your own has plenty of missed calls and texts, most of which you've no intention of answering, most of them are from people you don't give a shit about, the girlfriend though, she deserves an answer.

_Leo okay, Mikey? :( - O'Neil 10:13_

_No, it's going to take more than pizza to fix this, O'Neil. - Sent 12:56_

The other important people are assuming no news is, well probably, bad news and if there's anything important, you will report to them on it so haven't sent a single thing.

You strip and stand under the shower spray, contemplating him and his situation. This mess isn't familiar; you're not certain how best to address it, nothing you've come up with so far has gotten him to open up. He's as closed now as when you stepped on him two days ago. You sigh and rest your forehead against the tiles. Messy and complicated on the outside and probably horrible straightforward on the inside, _I'm tired, I'm sick_ so he left, you hope it's only until he's rested, until he's not sick, until he's himself. His legacy can't end with sneaking out the backdoor, once he's himself, he'll be furious with the miserable little fucker in the living room.

"You're using all the water." The draft from him moving the shower curtain is the only warning you have, before he's plastered against your back, his arms around you, his forehead against the base of your neck.

"I wasn't aware my rug was sentient." You mutter, stroking the colourful skin of his arms, remembering when there was more pale skin and less ink on them, you can't say you miss the bare, blank skin, the man he was then, that is another matter though.

"Rug?" He murmurs, his lips against your skin.

"You're either part rug or the floor is your new best friend." You turn in his arms and hold him close to you, your face against the side of his neck.

"I left it for you, didn't I?" He sounds mildly amused, which is beyond a relief.

"You're still on it." Even if this is a mildly stupid conversation, you don't want it to end; it's pleasingly close to banter.

"I'm _standing _in the _shower_." He is at that, naked, warm, wet and in your arms.

"On the flower shore." You're aware that words came out wrong but he's chuckling against your neck and the feeling of him gently laughing in your arms is unreasonably good.

"_Flower shore_?" His impression of you really is horrible; you squeeze tightly him in response to his mockery.

"Come see me when you and the English language are BFFs." You squeeze him again and attempt to move away from him, you really are beginning to use up all of the hot water but his arms tighten around you and he kisses you. It's not a hurried kiss, it's thorough and slow, he's taking his time, carefully tasting every inch of your mouth.

"Hey what-" You don't get to finish, he kisses you again instead. When he breaks the kiss this time, it's with a soft lazy look in his eyes, a look that says he'd be perfectly happy to repeat his actions all day, slow and steady, not a single pressing concern in the World. "You sure?" You ask him, stroking his hair from his face, the water plastering the choppy strands to his forehead.

"Want you." He speaks with his lips close to your own, brushing them gently, his voice soft and low.

"Not here, bed." You step away from him, getting clean as quickly as possible, you glance at him and he's following your lead, washing quickly. You get out of the shower, he keeps sneaking kisses, his hands stroking over your skin, refusing to let you get too far from him, even as you attempt to dry both you and him, slowing the whole process down considerably.

"Let's go." He murmurs softly, tugging you along with him, towards your bedroom. Once there, he kisses you again, he seems oddly _clingy_, not that you mind but kissing isn't talking and you have no idea if this is really helping him and not just distracting him from it. Although, distraction honestly maybe better for him.

"How-" His kiss interrupts you once more; apparently, he's not overly interested in what you're going to say to him. He walks backwards and when he comes to the bed sits, dragging you down with him, not breaking the kiss. You settle on your knees between his spread legs, wrapping your arms around him tightly. HIs arms are about your shoulders and neck, his hands in your hair, his kiss still determinedly slow and deep. You've kissed him so many times over the years; you're convinced you can taste his emotions in his kisses. This one is coloured with sorrow, he tastes as good as ever but there is a hint of something that shouldn't be there. "Okay?" You ask him, cupping his face and stroking his bags with your thumb, you hate how permanent and big they are these days. They were always there but smaller, they looked like he if he slept he could deal with them but now, he could give Jean Reno a run for his money.

"I'm good." He manages a half-assed smile and you shake your head at him, as he nuzzles against your hand. "I'll be fine, okay?" You smile slightly at him and kiss him softly once more.

"So you wanna tell me what this is about?" He raises an eyebrow and looks confused.

"Uh, fucking?" His half-assed smile is a full-blown grin now.

"Punkers." You're rather proud how you can manage to turn saying his name into a full-blown question; he sighs and shakes his head, the grin replaced with a sullen little scowl.

"What'd you want me to say, Colt? I'm tired."

"I know." You kiss his forehead softly; his scowl softens to a frown.

"I'm sick, I need to rest." There are times you want to beat the entire WWE staff into a bloody pulp for the misery in his eyes, your Punkers, your _best_ friend, should not look so fucking miserable, so very often.

"I know that too but Punkers, _this_ isn't you." He sighs and rests his forehead against yours. "Why?"

"Ask the Internet." He snaps at you but doesn't move or squirm in your arms, sick and tired and needing a rest, maybe that's all there is to it, maybe it's that simple. It's entirely possible that he hasn't given you any other information because there isn't any more to give. You kiss him gently, taking the cue from his kisses, slow and soft, leaving no inch of his mouth untasted.

"Fuck the Internet." You mutter against his lips, kissing him again. Let them speculate and bitch and whine and moan, you don't care, what you care about right now is the idiot in your arms.

"Nope, me." He grins once more and you find yourself laughing at him, he's a ridiculously capricious creature.

"We're gonna need-"

"Lube?" He grins at you holding the little bottle you keep in your apartment.

"Where the fuck you get that?" He barks an overly amused laugh, his grin getting bigger.

"You were in the shower ages, I got prepared." He looks entirely too pleased with himself you think, you kiss the smug little grin off his face, leaving him smiling softly at you.

"Gimme." You take the bottle from him, rearrange yourself on the floor, sitting on your ass between his spread legs, your toes under the bed frame, and tug him down further, his ass hanging off the edge. You open the bottle, coat a finger and slide it inside of him. He arches his back with a soft moan. You've not fucked in a while, he's been in Florida with the lovely Ms O'Neil and you're as busy as ever, he's incredibly tight because of the separation.

"No seduction? No sweet nothings? No foreplay? Cabana, I feel used." He moans as you ease another slicked finger into his body, scissoring them, opening him up.

"I started you off with a kiss, boy." You grin up at him, slowly moving your fingers in and out of him, you absently wonder if he'll remember the sketch you're referencing or if he'll have forgotten, you think _The Meaning of Life_ might have been the movie he kept falling asleep through.

"There was no nipple sucking, no earlobe nibbling." You stroke one of his thighs with your free hand.

"There, two ways to get the _juices flowing_." His laugh melts into a soft moan as you ease a third finger into him, you take yourself in hand and begin jacking your cock to erection, the kiss you press to his thigh draws his eyes to you. You nod at his slowly hardening cock. "Go on." He licks his palm and starts stroking himself, your cock definitely enjoys the sight of him masturbating, his thin fingers wrapped around his own length, the head appearing and disappearing as he gathers speed. You withdraw your fingers from him and tap his hand, he's ready for you and you are so very ready for him.

"How we-" He starts and you pull him further down, off the bed, he lands on his knees, straddling you thighs awkwardly. He smiles slightly and squirms up, moving to let you position your cock at his hole and slowly you enter him.

"Feet on the floor." You tell him, the angle won't be great but you're not letting him kneel on the carpet, you support his weight as he moves so that he's sitting in your lap, your cock in his ass. The position dictates that this will have to be a slow fuck, gentle and soft but that was the point of your choice, you want to take care of him, to keep him smothered in your embrace as you fuck him. Your thrusts into him are shallow and slow, he doesn't quite have the leverage to be able to rock back against you, as he'd like. You wriggle closer to the bed, letting him rest against it somewhat, giving him something solid behind him to help him move with you. You're pressed as closely together as possible you think, his hard cock trapped between you, the stimulation he's getting as you move against each other is probably not enough to make him come but he doesn't seem to mind. He's moaning softly with each thrust, kissing you slowly, his hands alternating between carding through your hair and stroking your back and shoulders. You can feel your orgasm building, slowly, thrust by thrust, each one bringing you closer to the edge. You want him with you, you want him to go first really, he looks so very beautiful as he comes, which you are certain shouldn't be possible and yet he manages it. "Touch yourself." You whisper against his ear, nibbling on the lobe a little and getting a sharp little rap on the back of the head for it.

"Not the ears, Cabana." He gasps, his voice soft and needy, perhaps the stimulation of your gently rutting bodies is affecting him more than you thought, he sounds incredibly close after all.

"But they're your one weak spot, Punkers, gotta take advantage somehow." You tell him as you suck behind his abused ear, making him moan and shiver, pressing himself even closer to you.

"Harder?" He makes it a question and you shake your head, slow and soft is what he's getting,

"Touch yourself." If he wants more stimulation he can start jacking off, you lean back from him a little and one of his hands wraps around his cock, stroking at the same slow pace. It takes time but when he comes, it's with his head thrown back against the bed and your name a soft exhalation on his lips. His body trembles in your arms and you're certain you don't want to go so long without having him like this again.

"Come for me, Colt." He moans softly as you keep thrusting into him. "Wanna feel your cum." It's not often he attempts dirty talk, really he's horribly bad at it, more like an instruction manual or a terrible story in the Nifty archive, not that you read that sort of thing of course but you've been told, by people, who aren't you but those few words go straight to your cock. You hide your face against his neck, pressing his back against the bed as you come. You press soft kisses to his neck, your fingers stroking his skin.

"Okay?" You ask him, feeling him nodding slightly against your throat, where he's tucked his head. You sit a while, still buried deep inside of him, feeling his body relaxed and pliant in your arms. You know you should move up off the floor, neither of you are getting any younger and sitting curled up around each other like this, is probably not a good idea, your joints won't thank you for it at least. "C'mon." You nudge one of his thighs, he unwraps his legs from around you, lifts himself off your cock and flops back on the bed. You press a kiss to his knee, clambering up beside him and you both squirm up towards the pillows, pushing at each other, trying to steal the best side of the bed. You eventually win, the biggest, fluffiest set of pillows secured under your own head, you grin over at him and tug him to rest his head against your chest. "Okay?" You ask him again, you think he must be getting sick of being asked this by now.

"I will be." He says softly, you stroke the hair on the back of his head, you have a feeling that is all the information you're going to get and as you feel a nap sneaking up on you, you think it's likely that it's the only information you're going to need.

* * *

**littleone1389**: I was a little nervous about having AJ in there but she so needed to be, if there's more of this she will likely make another appearance.

**EmbraceLove**:^_^ Thank you! I worry so much about my Colt voice and so few people write him that I want to _try _to make him good, he's so horribly under-rated and I just love the goofball so very much. :3

**adg888**: As far as I am aware, he's gone. I _hope_ it's a work, heaven knows I want it to be a work so badly but it seems he's left. :'(

**alizabethianrose**: I kind of see Ace as Splinter and Triple H as Shredder... but that _might_ just be me! ;)

_Please note this is heavily unedited and written in an odd and rather miserable mood, I think I have been away from home for too long, not too long now though._

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	4. A House is not a Home

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin, lots of AJ Lee and as such implied het.

* * *

The next day you spend sprawled across the sofa watching TV, Punkers laying on top of you, absently changing stations as and when the fancy takes him, no one show lasting overly long. You tell him about your impending trip to India and he absently wonders if there's time for him to buy a ticket, you're pretty sure he's joking but the idea of him tagging along, of him _wanting_ to tag along, makes you oddly happy. It's maybe three in the afternoon when your peaceful little bubble is burst by a knock at your door, Punk tenses up and twists in your arms to look at you.

"You expecting someone?" He sounds more than a little annoyed at the idea of your lazy day being interrupted. You shrug and shake your head. There's another knock and he moves off of you, sits curled up at the opposite end of the sofa, his expression closed and guarded. You sit up, stroke his cheek gently and go to answer it.

"_Finally_!" O'Neil stands on the other side, a big rucksack at her feet and pizza boxes in her arms, a grin on her face. "Thought I was gonna have to break the damn door down, Mikey." You smile at her.

"Miss O'Neil, to what do I owe the pleasure?" You grab the rucksack, which is surprisingly heavy and stand aside, letting her in.

"Well, I figured I should make sure Leo isn't dead, you know." Her grin gets bigger and she walks into the living room. "Hey Punker!" You shake your head and give them a few minutes, closing the door and waiting by it. "Hurry up, Cabana! Pizza's getting cold!" She shouts and you find yourself shaking your head again.

"The fuck you got in here, O'Neil? Bricks?" You set the bag down and she rushes over to it, an anxious look on her face. You shake your head and flop on the sofa beside Punk.

"Hey, careful with him, he's delicate." She fusses over the bag, cooing at it, before opening it, seemingly checking on the contents.

"You talking about the bag or Punkers?" You ask her, she glances up and grins at you.

"The bag, Punker is as delicate as a brick." She settles down, cross-legged, on the floor in front of the TV, facing the sofa. "SO the big box is for you two. Little one's mine." She points at the large pizza box and takes the smaller one for herself. "Hurry up and eat it, I swear I am putting on weight just by being in the same room as that thing."

"I dunno, you could probably stand to gain a few pounds." You tell her with a grin, Punkers has already opened the big box and is devouring a slice of incredibly good-looking pizza, a rather dorky smile on his face. O'Neil barks a laugh and opens her own, the pizza inside looks miserable by comparison, small and with barely anything but roast vegetables on top.

"You have _any_ idea what kind of shit I would get into if I gained a few _ounces_?" She starts nibbling on her pizza, looking covetously at the pepperoni wonderland of the one she brought for you and Punk.

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind so long as it was all on the bust, right Punkers?" You nudge his shoulder with your own; he swallows his pizza and looks at you.

"Your mother always tells me it rude to talk with my mouth full." He takes another bite of pizza and winks at O'Neil.

"Pussy." You mutter, picking up a slice and taking a bite, its damn good pizza poor April is missing out on.

"Diplomatic." He counters, a smirk on his lips.

"I'm with Cabana." You laugh and high five her across the table.

"Traitor." He mutters and keeps eating, that bright, dorky smile back on his face.

"So what have you boys been up to?" She asks, her eyes flitting between the two of you. You don't know her well, can count the amount of times you've met her on your hand but you think she's trying to assess Punkers' mood. Honestly, you're not fully certain how he's feeling right now, the dorky smile isn't overly familiar to you, it's one he wears when things he didn't expect to happen but wanted to, do and you aren't sure what he wanted. It might be the fact that you and April are getting on, it might be that he's got pizza; it might even be that April is here in the first place, you're not sure, you might know Punkers better than anyone else but you aren't a mind reader.

"Nothing, really." He answers her vaguely; she smiles at him softly and then turns to you.

"_Please_ tell me he hasn't been watching that weird-ass shit on lifetime." You grin at her; it would seem Punkers weird interest in storage bins has been concerning other people too.

"It's TruTv." He interjects, his voice slightly petulant.

"Whatever, Punker." April shakes her head at him.

"And Mexican soaps." You tell her in grave tones, grabbing a slice of her pizza and picking the roast vegetables, except the mushrooms, off of it, replacing it with the topping from your new slice; she's earned this slice of pizza heaven.

"Mexican soaps? Oh, Punker, nothing good ever comes from those." Her voice is as grave as your own and you hand her the modified pizza. "If I get fat, I blame you." She snaps and takes a bite.

"Tell'em you were comfort eating." You see Punkers tense slightly beside you, the urge to touch him comes and goes quickly, he needs to deal with the fact that none of the three of you would be in this situation if it wasn't for the fact he left.

"Oh don't! My oh-so lovely co-workers have been trying to force-feed me gallons of ice-cream. What the hell they think it's gonna do but give me brain freeze, I don't know." She waves her hand in an emphatic gesture and shrugs before taking another bite of pizza. "Honestly, it's not like I need to worry about either of you."

"Either of us? Why you worrying about me?" You're slightly confused, you're sure you've given her no reason to worry about you.

"Not you, fucker." Punkers smacks you on the back of the head. "Kaitlyn."

"The chick with the awesome rack and great ass?" You turn to look at him, confusion still reigning.

"Colt Cabana, last of the great feminists. And you wonder why you're still single." Punkers scowl is betrayed by the amusement in his eyes.

"To be fair, Celeste does have amazing tits and her ass, whoa." April fans herself with a hand and grins up at you.

"Is it still misogyny if it's a woman saying it, Punkers?" You turn to him with a smirk; you don't think you've enjoyed winding him up this much in a while.

The rest of the pizza, the three of you share. The conversation between you, light and meaningless, nothing too deep, harmless chatter really. You find you like O'Neil more than you thought you would, you and Amy had gotten on so well that you were concerned that whoever came after her would compare badly but O'Neil is her own woman and bringer of pizza, it's not Nate's cupcakes but it's a start. Once the boxes are empty, Punkers volunteers to clear them away, carrying them downstairs to trash.

"How is he?" She asks, her voice soft and serious. "He seems better, I knew he would be but how is he gonna be when you go?"

"I." You start and frown, it's hard to tell, you could say he'd be fine, you could say he'll fall apart, it's not like you're the only person Punkers has to rely on, it's just that given the choice, you're his first. "I dunno." You tell her, it's the only honest answer you have really.

"How long you away for?" She looks concerned, as though she's worried about you, you feel a frown forming on your lips, she doesn't need to worry about you. The only person either of you need to worry about is him, you worried that he'll close himself off whilst you're away, worried that all of this progress will be erased because he's decided he isn't ready to talk to anyone else, that he isn't ready to leave his sanctuary.

"Over a week." You mutter, she smiles and pats your hand, you find her gesture oddly endearing.

"I'll be around as long as I can and we'll get something sorted for the other days." She stands and walks over to the rucksack, unzipping it and pulling out the contents. "SO I brought this to stave off storage auction hell." She unpacks and sets up an Xbox, you find yourself drawn into playing the latest WWE game with her, both of you sitting cross-legged on the floor backs against the sofa, your coffee table moved out of the way. Punkers is sprawled across the sofa, his head resting on the arm closest to you, watching and offering you utterly unhelpful advice.

"Stop letting her pin you, Cabana." You have to hold the urge to smack him in check.

"Thank you for that, Punkers. Why don't you try and beat her." You've lost thirteen times in a row, it's gotten beyond embarrassment for you, now it's a matter of pride, you want to beat her once, just once.

"Want me to distract her?" He asks you, fake whispering in your ear, out of the corner of your eye you can see her watching you both, a slight smile curving her lips.

"That's cheating, Punker." She whines and bats her eyelashes at him.

"Alls fair in love and war?" You try but her expression hardens.

"This is gaming, Mr Cabana. I _will not_ tolerate cheating." Her mouth is set in a thin little line and you're pinned again.

"How bout we play pong? I could beat you at pong." Punkers laughs in your ear and you hand him up the control. "Here, you try and beat her. Your manly pride is on the line." He raises an eyebrow.

"What about your manly pride?" He sounds mildly bemused and trades places with you easily enough, you sit on the sofa, feet on the floor, he sits so that his side is against one of your legs.

"I dressed as a pink fairy on national television, I got no manly pride." You tell him ruffling his hair; April glances up at you with an odd little smile on her face. You shrug and she turns back to the TV.

"You got no chance, Punker, you're going down."

"Only if you ask nicely." He snaps back. You find yourself smirking and laughing at him, glad that O'Neil doesn't seem inclined to question the fact that he seems more content to be resting against you than her. You'd been worried about leaving him, worried that going off on this jaunt to India would be a bad but with her presence you feel more relaxed. She's good for him, you decide watching her beat him, you're happy to leave him in her care till your back, content that she'll take care of him till you come back home.

* * *

**InYourHonour**: I am so glad you're enjoying these! :D

**littleone1389**: Ha, I get the feeling that I will undoubtedly write the Meaning of Life watching attempt at some stage, PunkSis. ;) I am glad these are making you feel better too. :D

**EmbraceLove**: Sweet was where I'm aiming for this whole little series, it's my attempt at making myself feel better about the whole Punk leaving mess... Needy or needing... I am aiming to avoid making Punk come across as _needy_ as such and more like he needs something, reassurance, comfort maybe... I think he's on the up in this little bit though. :D I hope you're feeling better too! I'm so much better for being home. :D

**alizabethianrose**: I so need to find out if there is something that could potentially be Buttons Through the Ages... It was a random documentary I made up and now I actually really want to watch it... Sweet smut was kind of fun to write... I think I've spent so much time writing kinky smut that writing something vanilla was quite a challenge... glad you enjoyed it!

_I'm not sure if there is going to be more in this or not, to be honest... the idea just kind of jump up on me... if there's more it'll be along anon, I suppose. :) PLEASE your opinions on my AJ are very important to me, I am incredibly concerned about writing females characters, I fear making them MarySues, men with vaginas or horrifically overly Victorian heroines. If you have any thoughts or comments on how I portrayed AJ I'd be grateful to hear them, I do love the girl and I want to do her justice._

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	5. A Woman's Place is in the Home

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin, lots of AJ Lee and as such implied het.

* * *

You had intended to offer them your bed for the night. It seemed chivalrous, after all O'Neil is, reputedly, a lady. A proper bed is something she must be used to, however, she was the first to pass out, halfway through one the many crap movies you ended up watching, after she got bored of kicking your asses. The snore she let out was anything but lady-like and you had to slap your hand over Punkers' mouth to stop him from laughing too loudly at his girlfriend.

"Guess she's tired." He mutters, moving the arm he has around her shoulders slightly to let her slump more against his chest.

"Well, she's been working." You keep your voice quiet; Punkers and O'Neil are sprawled on the floor, his back resting against the sofa, you're lying on it, head propped up on the arm closest to him. "No wonder she's tired."

"Hmm." You watch as he absently strokes her hair, not looking away from the TV.

"Must be hard for her." He makes an odd little noise. "Kaitlyn's gone, you left. She's on her own."

"Maybe she's using it as an opportunity to bond, make new and exciting friends." He sounds slightly bitter.

"Or complain about the shitty way the girls are treated and the lack of decent stories she's getting. You hardly set a good example, Punkers."

"I'm sure she's capable of complaining without using me as inspiration." He tilts his head back to look at you, a sullen little smirk on his lips.

"Yeah but now she's all on her own, no inspiration even if she wanted it." You're not sure where you're going with this conversation, it seems rather pointless to you really.

"Didn't need me inspiring her to get the Title, she'll be fine, she's a big girl." He sounds slightly proud, you glance down at the woman, fast asleep and softly snoring, you're not sure _big_ is the word but you're fairly confident she's more than capable of standing on her own two feet.

"Wanna put her to bed?" You ask him, he shakes his head and smiles wryly at you.

"Nah, she'll wake up and bitch. Go get a blanket." You groan and get off the sofa, carefully avoiding stepping on either of them. By the time you drag the comforter from your bed to the living room, he's rearranged them both so there's space against the sofa beside him. You sit down by him and let him make a half-assed attempt at spreading the blanket out before fixing it yourself. As soon as you've settled, his head is on your shoulder, attention caught fully by the TV once more, storage auctions appear to be something he's able to find no matter what time it is. The arm not around O'Neil's shoulders is wrapped around your waist, the shirt you're wearing tightly clasped in his hand as though he's worried you'll leave. You're not too sure what to do with yourself, you've never been involved in a three-way snuggle before and you _really_ didn't mean to think three-way just then. You must have made some kind of noise because he looks up at you questioningly.

"What?" You get the feeling you sound terribly self-conscious, he grins and moves his arm from around April, catching the one of yours closet to him and dragging it over his own shoulders, pressing your hand over the curve of his shoulder and then cuddling April back to him, the dorky smile from earlier back on his face. "There's a saying about cake and eating that so applies to you, right now Punkers." You mutter, kissing his hair and stoking his shoulder with your thumb. He chuckles softly, the movement making O'Neil snort and squirm in her sleep.

"What else are you supposed to do with cake, Colt?" He sounds horribly smug but you don't have the heart to argue.

You're awoken by the sound of an iPhone camera taking a picture.

"No, nononono, don't move!" O'Neil loud whispers at you as you crack one eye open to look at her. "One more." She sounds unreasonably pleased with herself as she snaps another shot and suddenly her cell phone is waved in front of your face. "_Look_! Aren't you two just the _cutest_?" Her cell shows a picture of you looking balefully at the camera and Punkers asleep, curled around you like an octopus.

"No." You've never seen him sleeping around you from an outside perspective before, you think it looks ridiculous rather than cute but each to their own.

"The question is do I post it on Twitter or not?" She grins down at you and you smirk straight back up at her.

"You wanna start rumours, O'Neil?" She laughs and sits down cross-legged on the floor.

"Ah and what exciting rumours they'd be! Am I Punk's beard, are we in a three-way, am I actually Colt Cabana after a sex change?" She looks incredibly amused.

"Hours of fun." You grin back at her; it would cause an interesting little storm in a teacup for sure.

"_Shut up_! Some of us are trying to sleep." Punkers snaps from where he's still curled around you, his head under your chin, his arms, even one leg, wrapped around you tightly. You move one of your arms from around him, making him moan slightly and cling more tightly to you. You tap his thigh and he groans but does let you go, flops over, burrowing himself in the comforter, still asleep.

"Okay, I am building a pyre." O'Neil sounds slightly amazed, staring at the tangle of blanket and Punkers.

"Why?" You ask her as you get to your feet.

"He went straight back to sleep." She says plainly, staring at you in mild wonder.

"He does that." You shrug, Punkers is generally asleep unless he's awake, then he's _awake_, there is a tiny sliver of time where you can get him to move off of you, just between asleep Punkers and the awake version. You have to move quickly to take advantage, though. You suppose you should perhaps add some hints and tips to the '_Caring for your Punk'_ manual.

"No, he _really_ doesn't. You, sir, are _clearly_ a witch."

You take your leave of her company and go shower, you've a show in Philly tomorrow afternoon, your flight leaves later today and then from Philly to India, you need to start getting yourself ready. Thankfully, last minute packing is something you've perfected over the years so it doesn't take as long as it could and perhaps should. You can hear Punkers and O'Neil vaguely from somewhere else in your apartment, her laughs and his more exasperated tones. You finish up packing and wander through to find them.

"We'll get take out, subways, something, seriously woman, step away from the stove." Punkers sounds desperate, trying to haul a determined looking O'Neil from the kitchen.

"I can cook, damnit, Punker. I only burnt jello once!" You think she looks like she might either punch him or stomp her foot, the little you know of her pegs punching as more likely though.

"How the fuck do you burn jello?" The words leave your mouth without you even thinking them. O'Neil jumps and turns to face the door.

"I was six and it said boiling water on the packet, I thought putting it in a pot and on the stove would save time." She sounds oddly defensive, her arms crossed. Punkers does a piss-poor job of not laughing at her, getting a kick to the shin for it.

"Be a good housewife and cook for us, Punkers." You take a seat on one of the stools in your kitchen resting your elbows on the counter and batting your eyelashes at him. April laughs and hops up the stool one down from you.

"Punker _cannot_ cook, can he?" She rests her head in her hand and looks at you.

"No, I ca-"

"Course he can, Nate taught him." You interrupt him before he can finish, a grin on your face.

"Traitor. There any actual food in here?" He mutters opening your fridge, a tirade no doubt being muttered under his breath.

"Awesome cupcake lady?" You find yourself being surprised that O'Neil has met Nate and sampled her admittedly awesome cupcakes.

"That's the one." You nod; she gets a rather dreamy look in her eyes, gazing into the distance.

"Can he make the _awesome _ones? With the epic frosting?" You get the feeling you know exactly which cupcakes she's talking about and have the feeling that you're wearing the same dreamy face at the thought of them.

"And the sprinkles." You add, she makes a happy little moan and grins. "No, refused to learn because he's an _asshole_." Punkers snorts but doesn't turn from whatever it is he's making on the stove.

"But the _sprinkles_!" She sounds mournful.

"See, asshole, _everyone _loves the sprinkles." You nod in agreement with her and get a smack on the back of the head from Punkers as he sets an omelette down in front of O'Neil, going back to the stove.

"Be even fatter if I learnt how to make those fucking things." He mutters, returning with another two plates, sitting on the stool between you and O'Neil.

"Oh, I would help you burn off the calories, Punker." She laughs, he rather surprisingly blushes slightly and starts shovelling food into his mouth instead of making a snappy comeback, you meet O'Neil's eye over his head and wink at her, she laughs and pats him on the back. "You're a good little housewife, don't worry, no more lewd conversation at the breakfast counter." You find yourself laughing at them, unable to stop even when Punkers kicks you.

Eventually, you realise you have to leave for the airport, you'd been enjoying a morning spent ruffling Punkers' feathers and hearing about O'Neil's life in general.

"I gotta go." You tell them, stuffing your feet into your sneakers, Punkers following suit. "You don't gotta leave, Punkers." You tell him and he grins at you lazily.

"I'm driving you to the airport, Cabana." You shrug, you'd planned on taking a bus but if he's willing to drive you there, then the car back so you don't have to pay airport-parking fees, you're not going to complain, it'll be easier if nothing else.

"Ooo! I want a key!" O'Neil pipes up from the sofa, her attention caught by killing something, you're not sure what exactly it is but she's been killing things for the best part of an hour now. You can't help but wonder if this is potential payback for all the times Punkers has forced her through storage auctions.

"You gonna be here when I get back?" You ask mostly of him but you suppose of her too.

"Punker will be, he seems to have decided to turn this into his foxhole." She laughs; you pull your front door key off the ring and toss it towards the sofa. "_Thanksssss_." Even _her_ impression of you is better than Punk's, you think with a wry smirk.

"You're welcome, be good, no fucking on my bed." You call over to her.

"_Cabana_!" Punkers sounds mildly offended and O'Neil laughs.

"How bout the sofa?" She asks you, still not turning from her game.

"Eww, somewhere wipe clean, _please_." You really don't want to think of them fucking on the sofa. The amount of times you've taken Punkers on it is the only sex, involving him, you want to think about when it comes to any piece of furniture in your house.

"Shower, gotcha. Bye, Mikey!"

"I hate you both, we're leaving now, I might bring back food." Punkers grabs your wrist and drags you out of the apartment.

"Bye, O'Neil!" You manage to call out before he slams the door shut and ushers you down to your car, that bright, dorky grin on his face the whole time.

On the drive to the airport, he suddenly pulls over, parking in an empty alleyway. You turn to him in confusion and he reaches across the centre console, kisses you fiercely.

"Call me." He says softly, resting his forehead against your own.

"When I can." You mutter, touching his jaw gently. He kisses you again but much slower this time, gentle and soft.

"Text me, tweet, something, lemme know you get there okay." His lips brush against your own as he talks, the warm air of his breath washing over your face. You kiss him softly and nod.

"Promise." He pulls away from you, his eyes trying for shuttered but you know him too well for that, your hand cups his cheek and you smile slightly at him, you'll let him know somehow. He nuzzles your hand and nods softly, starting the car once more and continuing the journey to the airport. The rest of the trip happens in silence, quiet and comfortable, both of you content to simply exist in each other's company.

At the airport you get out of the car, garb your bag and are about to enter the building when he shouts you back over.

"Cabana! I forgot." You walk over to the driver's side, he's wound the window down and poking a piece of paper through it at you. "April wanted me to give you this." You thank him; leave him with another goodbye and go to check in for your flight. Whilst standing in the queue, you open the little slip of paper, written on it in an unfamiliar scrawl is a Skype id and a little note reading:

_**Hey Mikey,**_

_**Wanna try a three-way?**_

_**O'Neil ;)**_

* * *

**bitter-alisa**: Menor, I am most glad to see you back! I am not sure about more awesome but certainly more set in my ways... I am pleased and relieved that you didn't think AJ was off. :D

**Guest**: I know, the way AJ is written kind of freaks me out... I'm not a huge fan of het, I don't really read it at all, I have braved it a few times for AJ and been pretty much convinced that it's not for me. :( I am glad you think I have her down okay. :D

**littleone1389**: More hanging out. :D I did say I enjoyed writing them just hanging out together way too much. LoL

**AnRevival**: Ha, thank you for the encouragement. It means a lot when when non-slash fans read my fics and enjoy them. :D (I'm pretty sure I am the only person who doesn't need update soon prompts though... LoL)

**alizabethianrose**: A slide show... I am most intrigued, I shall have to see if I can find it on baidu. I honestly find female characters to be very difficult to write... we're a complex gender and all too often the wrong part of a female's personality gets emphasised... Lemme know if I screwed AJ up here.

_I think (and I stress think) that there will be one more chapter of this to go, it'll be along when it's done and I finally have a lesson written... which I should have been writing instead of this... I am an irresponsible teacher, I know, believe me, I know. So probably later in the week. :D_

_**PLEASE** your opinions on my AJ are very important to me, I am incredibly concerned about writing female characters, I fear making them MarySues, men with vaginas or horrifically overly Victorian heroines. If you have any thoughts or comments on how I portrayed AJ I'd be grateful to hear them, I do love the girl and I want to do her justice._

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	6. Home away from Home

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin, lots of AJ Lee and as such implied het.

_[text in here is typed skype messages (in here in a skype message is the code for a relevant emoticon)] _I know too much about skype, I know.

* * *

It's sometime in the afternoon when you get a random text from Punkers telling you to be online. You weren't really doing anything, truth be told, India is odd, very different to the quaint suburb you grew up in. The abject poverty some people live in, the squalor, you can't help but feel horribly for them and yet it's offset by the joy on their faces at the show, the look of utter intrigue at what you're doing in the ring. Sure, you're not really doing anything to make their lives better but for a few hours they look so happy and it's gratifying in a way wrestling in front crowds of your well-paid, well-fed fellow countrymen could never be. You can't deny it's been fun so far; it's always good to spend time in a new country, it's even better to get paid to wrestle there. You do get the feeling you're going to making some kind of donation to some sort of charity when you're home though. You have no idea what time it is for them, late you suppose, you doubt this will be a long call so you boot up Skype and wait.

When the computer rings, you accept the call without really paying too much attention, you're attempting to read the notes the promoter left you, when two little windows pop up it surprises you. One showing O'Neil, wearing PJs and no make-up, her hair tied back, glasses perched on her nose, a big mug of something gently steaming in her hands. The other shows a rather gleeful looking, shirtless Punkers, a massive grin on his face singing terribly.

"It's okay when it's in a three-way. It's not gay when it's in a three-way. With a honey-"

"You had better not be implying I am a honey, Punker." She snaps looking briefly annoyed.

"Huh, hello?" He looks confused at the camera and then is gone, the shot showing your headboard with what appears to be some kind of pillow fort built in front of it.

"Aren't those pillows from your place, Punkers?" You're slightly concerned as to what the hell he's up to in your house. You definitely don't have that many pillows and most of the bed linen, on the extra pillows mixed in with your own, looks vaguely like it's from his bed, there's one that you really don't recognise and by the odd look on April's face you'd say it was from her place in Florida. Your best friend is a very strange man sometimes.

"Needed my 'puter." He mutters, coming back into shot, wearing your damn Subway shirt, you're certain at some stage you issued strict_ no stealing _orders with regards to that shirt. He's looking through his phone, irritation on his face. "Fuck this, April, which button do I press to make the pictures come up?" She laughs at him and shakes her head.

"Stop looking at fucking porn and make Skype the active window, Punker." She laughs at him as he rubs the back of his neck, looking at the camera with a rather contrite expression on his face.

"Not porn." He's attempting to sound sincere but all O'Neil does is raise her eyebrow at him, you find yourself laughing at them and go to grab a bottle of water from the corner of the room.

"The fuck did you go? Was he there?" Punkers actually sounds surprisingly concerned, you stand off camera and look at little box Punkers actually appearing to try to look for you. You snort and shake your head, O'Neil has given up not laughing at him and only the top of her head is visible, bobbing up and down as she shakes with laughter.

"Hello Punkers." You sit back down on the end of the bed and wave at him, he grins at you, waving back.

"Hey Colt, how you doing?" April seems to have calmed down somewhat and waves but says nothing.

"I am _sure_ I told you not to steal that shirt." You tell him and he rubs at the back of his neck again, definitely looking contrite but doesn't say anything.

"If it makes you feel any better, Mikey, I stole it too." O'Neil grins, Skype flashes, informing you that she's sent you a file, you accept it and let it download.

"What is with you people and theft?" You try to look annoyed but you know you're failing just by looking at their faces. "You know, when you asked if I wanted a three-way, this was not _quite_ what I thought you meant, O'Neil." You smirk at her and she smirks straight back and winks at you.

"Maybe when you're back." She laughs, the sound a little on the perverted side. "SO did you get a shower or are you still bathing in buckets?" She asks you, the grin still on her face.

"There's a lot to be said for the efficiency a bucket and being stuck sharing with two other dudes inspires." You mutter, opening the downloaded file, it shows April pulling what you suppose is your trademark pose, mouth gaping open, in the Subway shirt. It hangs off of her like an over-sized dress, she looks ridiculous but you can see what Punkers sees in her. He has good taste in women if nothing else. "You really trying to start these three-way rumours?" You ask her, laughing and absently saving the file, it might be useful for blackmailing her later, you can never tell when these things will come in handy.

"It's okay, when it's in a three-way." Punkers intones, looking serious for all of five seconds before laughing loudly. He seems to be concentrating on the keys, you get the feeling he's trying to type and talk at the same time, technology and Punkers are not the best of friends, you can almost hear him mentally bitching about someone stealing letters from his keyboard. "Though _I_ am not sharing." He looks at you both, you see a spark of possessiveness in his eyes and you're not entirely certain who it's aimed at.

_[You okay with this?]_ Flashes up at the bottom of your screen, you're almost surprised that he feels he has to ask you this.

_[Its fine Punkers, if it wasn't, I wouldn't have accepted the call, would I?] _You're glad the many, many hours of dealing with computers has made you better at typing than him, you can do it with minimal looking at the keys these days, even upgraded to using most of your fingers, your right pinkie finger is still fundamentally useless though.

_[You sure?]_ He types back, thankfully managing to make a vague contribution to the little chatter with O'Neil that you're engaged in.

_[Really, Punkers?]_ This idiot, sometimes you despair of him. If you didn't want to talk to O'Neil you wouldn't, though if you thought it would make him happier you would, even if you didn't want to but you do want to talk to her, she's kind of growing on you and it does seem to be making him happy so it's a win-win situation.

_[Okay, okay... I get it; you're fine with it, just... I dunno.] _You _look_ at him, he seems to get the message and the dorky grin spreads over his face. O'Neil's eyes flicker across her screen, you get the feeling she was looking at the little boxes with you both in, a big, happy smile spreads across her face and you get the feeling you're going to have to try to learn how to read her before too long.

"SO Cena says hi and that he misses his Batman." O'Neil's smile softens, her eyes strangely gentle. You think she's probably looking at the little box with Punkers in it, you feel weirdly like you're intruding in something that is really none of your business, Punkers' life actually _in_ the WWE has never really been your concern. During your brief time there, you were apart and since then your lives have taken very different paths. Even if you almost obsessively introduce Punkers to your friends, you've met very few of the people he's worked with, you've never questioned it but it does strike you as odd. "Also told me to tell you, he thinks Bryan is The Flash."

"Bull, Green Lantern." You and Punkers both answer at the same time, making O'Neil grin brightly.

"_Exactly_! That's what I said but will he listen to me? God damn SuperCena." She rolls her eyes and shakes her fist.

"Wait, Punkers is Batman, you're Wonder Woman." You can't really imagine her being anyone else in the Justice League.

"Obviously." She grins again, looking overly pleased with herself.

"Who am I?" You're mildly hoping for someone cool, you'd like someone like Azrael, that would be pretty awesome, apart from the being French and evil, you're not a very good heel after all.

"Robin." Punkers smirks at you.

"_What_? Not even Nightwing?" You're mildly put out by the accusation, Robin is such a, well he was Chris O'Donnell for a start, that should say everything.

"Hmm." O'Neil looks like she's considering and shakes her head, the feed freezes mid-shake leaving an oddly amusingly distorted image of her. "You're Robin, Cabana, that's just the way it is."

"Would that make Ace Alfred?" Punk muses, chin resting on his steepled fingers.

"Commissioner Gordon." You tell him, thinking of the numerous times Ace has had to cover your asses and give you both a talking to; he infinitely more of an authority figure in your lives, Alfred just doesn't fit.

"No way, obviously Alfred." Punkers smirks at you, eyes narrowed. "I can picture you and him hanging out in the Bat Cave and I'm off doing something cool and Batmanesque, talking about how awesome and Batman, I am." You laugh at him.

"And yet, he's still more likely to tell you, you're a fucking idiot and smack you on the head. Definitely Gordon."

"Alfred."

"Gordon."

"Alfred."

"Gordon."

"Alf-"

"_Guys_! Shut up." O'Neil is shaking her head and trying to look stern but failing miserably, her amusement keeps breaking through. "We got what Cabana's doing."

"Being Prince of India." You interrupt her, getting a mildly amused look from her, Punkers is trying to type something again apparently, his eyes concentrating on the keys, dull thuds from where he's hitting them too hard coming over the speakers.

"I'm planning mass murder and avoiding ice-cream, which begs the question, what have _you _been up to Punker?"

_[Alfred]_ You can't help the laugh that bubbles up your throat, you attempt to hide it behind a cough and a swig of water, O'Neil gives the screen an odd look.

"Mass murder is entirely acceptable! These assholes are assholes! I swear I could plead euthanasia on most of them!" She has a wry look on her face and Punk is still typing, you wonder if he's typing to her as well.

"I'm not sure that's a legitimate defence, O'Neil." You get the finger for pointing out reality; you return it with a grin.

_[Actually, I revise my position and declare Ace to be Luscius Fox. Wrestling is essentially the equivalent to my utility belt and as such, Ace is Lucius, so there! :P And fuck you, I can use emoticons if I want, Cabana. I'm a grown ass man and if I want to use the little faces to imply that I am right and you are wrong, you can fucking just deal with it. Why isn't there one giving the finger?]_ Apparently he was writing you a novel, a mildly ridiculous novel and not to O'Neil after all.

"Me?" He looks at the screen, his eyes slightly distant. "Joe swore at me for like an hour, worried bout the whole parallel lives thing. Went out to see Chez, grabbed some stuff from my place, bought some actual fucking food, nothing exciting really."

_[I refuse to concede my position, Punkers. You are wrong and I am right. (flex)]_ You type back to him.

"Please tell me you're not still watching the storage shit, Punkers." O'Neil nods in agreement, yawning.

"You should be asleep, April." He doesn't answer you, is looking at the screen with an expression you know isn't for you, all soft and focussed and worried.

"I-" Another yawn stops her from finishing what she was saying.

"I gotta go anyway. I'll catch you when I'm home, okay." You say, O'Neil nods and Punkers is typing.

_[Don't go yet, well go but stay online... invisible? Gonna be all (inlove) with my girlfriend. (heart)]_ The little icon with the floating hearts is mildly disturbing, he has it so bad for this one, you think and honestly, you don't think you mind it, they're kind cute together. It's not often he's openly sappy with a woman and he's been incredibly openly sappy with O'Neil, whether he realises it or not.

_[Didn't need to know that Punkers! (tmi) I'll be here.]_ You type back and hang-up, switching to invisible and laying back on the bed. The afternoons here are painful in their stickiness, you sigh and stare up at the ceiling, O'Neil seemed stressed, tired, frazzled maybe. She's gonna need a break soon; you'll have to suggest to her that she asks for a few days off. If he knows she has time, Punkers _might _be persuaded to actually go home. They can fuck in his damn shower and not yours.

About an hour later Skype rings again, you answer without looking, knowing it will be him.

"Talk to me." He says, you glance at the screen; he's lying amongst his pillow fortress. His head resting on the pillows that are yours, the one you suspect to be April's clutched to his chest, his plushie dreidel beside him, still in your Subway shirt, at this rate you wouldn't be too surprised to find out that he was wearing O'Neil's panties.

"What about Punkers?" You ask him, sitting up slightly, the light in your bedroom back home is off, you think he should probably be sleeping and this will be the reason he wants you to talk to him. He's still not a hundred percent it would seem.

"Anything." He says softly, snuggling down into your pillows and clutching April's closer to him. You talk for about an hour and a half about absolutely nothing of importance, rambling vaguely, deciding that if anyone asks you where he is you're going to tell them he's dead. He fell asleep maybe ten minutes ago, you find yourself watching him though, making sure he's fully asleep, when his soft snores confirm it, you feel a fond smile forming on your face and hang up on him with a quiet:

"G'night Punkers."

* * *

**InYourHonour**: Ah, ha, no threesome, sorry! I don't think I could write it at all! :( I'm not sure I can stop worrying about writing a female character, they're genuinely quiet scary to do! I fear the MarySue like they were moths! LoL

**Guest**: Thank you! :) I am glad you like my AJ, I imagine her to be a rather quick woman, you'd have to be pretty clever and fast to be able to keep up with a guy like Punk for any length of time and not afraid to be crude to survive backstage at Indy shows!:D

**Guest**: Thank you! :D I really don't get how AJ is used sometimes in slash fics... I mean she might play a super crazy chick on TV but she seems so very normal and cool in real life, I just can't help but love the girl! :D

**littleone1389**: Honestly, you just know it's gonna take so much more to phase that girl! She's a hardy one! :D (perfect... that, I uh... I... I _so _disagree but thank you, PunkSis.)

**alizabethianrose**: Well the face I imagined him pulling was a priceless mix of wtf, embarrassment and mild perversion... It was pretty priceless in my mind! :D

_**PLEASE** your opinions on my AJ are very important to me, I am incredibly concerned about writing female characters, I fear making them MarySues, men with vaginas or horrifically overly Victorian heroines. If you have any thoughts or comments on how I portrayed AJ I'd be grateful to hear them, I do love the girl and I want to do her justice._

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	7. East is East, West is West, Home is Best

Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, brief mentions of AJ Lee and implied het.

* * *

You're beyond grateful when you get off the plane and are greeted by a grinning Punkers, cap pulled low over his eyes, clearly trying to blend in with the crowd, though you think being the only person stupid enough to wear shorts in the snow, probably makes him stand out. You are going to have to talk to O'Neil and get her to remind him that when it's cold outside, you wear long pants. You have terrible visions of him catching a cold. April is a smart woman, there is no chance in hell she'd put up with a sick Punkers, he'd be passed off to you so fast you wouldn't have time to say no, he's your boyfriend, you deal with him. He wraps you in a firm hug, complete with the requisite, to make hugging acceptable for males in public, back slaps, the subtle squeeze he gives you and the fact that the hug lasts a little longer than most men would be comfortable with, appears to be something everyone in the airport is content to ignore.

"You hungry?" He seems overly happy at having you back, his grin bright and toothy; you get the feeling that he must have been bored.

"Tired." You mutter, rubbing your eyes. He grabs your bag and starts walking out of the terminal.

"I figured that, got you a sub anyways. How was the flight?" His voice burbles in one ear and straight back out the other, your attention is caught by his mentioning of a sub but ignore everything else, he seems to be talking for the sake of it, to fill up the air more than anything. It's rather unlike him; he really must have spent the whole time, he's been on his own, doing nothing. Inactivity always makes him act oddly, this rather cheerfully, babbling Punkers is generally the version who's been stuck laid up, not able to go and do _something_, you think this is the first time you've seen him like this at the expense of his own choice.

"What you been up to, Punkers?" You ask him, once he's settled in the driver's seat. Your bag stashed in the trunk and the wrapped sub, he bought for you, clutched in your hand. He almost winces when you ask. "_Punkers_." He definitely winces that time. He's been doing _nothing_, brooding, watching TV, not sleeping, building pillow forts, nothing constructive or useful at least.

"I've been, uh." He starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, to the little machine where you have to pay. "I cleaned your place." He says brightly, grinning at you and then starts swearing that the machine, damning its father as a walkman and its mother a pocket calculator. Madness is always an interesting look on him, you think with a shake of your head and start eating the sub, devouring it without really tasting it. You're too tired for such complex processes as actually tasting food.

"Cabana." You feel a gentle shake of your shoulder. "Cabana." Another shake and your name in a mildly singsong voice. "COLT!"

"Oww." You rub the ear he shouted in, startled to find that you must have slept the whole way home; the car is parked outside your apartment building, Punkers standing by the open passenger door, your luggage in his hands and a lazy grin on his face.

"Sleep inside, yeah?" He offers you a hand, which you bat away and clamber inelegantly out of the car. You nod vaguely and head up the stairs, cursing the lack of elevator in this building. You flop against the wall by your door and wait for him to open it, courtesy lets him go first and once you're through the door, you lock it behind you, kicking off your shoes and hanging up your jacket. He's standing watching you with an oddly amused look on his face. His sneakers and jacket removed far more quickly. "Go shower." He tells you and you briefly consider telling him to fuck off, you'll drown if you try showering but he's right, travelling makes you feel dirty and bucket showers stop being twee and fun pretty quickly.

You're mildly disappointed when he doesn't join you in the shower, you probably would have been done quicker if he'd been there to wash your back, he did pop his head round the door, dropping you in some clothes, boxers and a sleep shirt, telling you to hurry the fuck up. Eventually, once you're clean, somewhat dry and dressed, you stumble to bed, flopping down on it, realising that his pillow fortress is still there, his pillows still mixed in with your own. O'Neil's, you confirmed the origin of the unrecognised bed linen with her on one of the Skype calls you made to her, encouraging her to push for some time off to spend with him, is conspicuous by its absence. You fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillows, his scent clinging to the fabric and filling your nostrils.

You wake up to the feeling of him, warm and heavy, against your back, his warm breath seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Hey." Your voice sounds croaky and quiet, there's a glass of water on the table by your bed, you reach for it, disturbing him and getting a soft grumble for it.

"Uh, you awake?" He wriggles up the bed, seemingly refusing to surrender his spot on top of you, his chin digging into your shoulder. "Gimme." He plucks the glass from your hand after you take a drink and finishes it, sets it back down and lets all of his weight rest against you. You collapse against the pillows awkwardly. "Still tired?" His voice is soft in your ear.

"Should get up, sleep'll be all fucked." You think your words are probably slightly muffled and slurred from where you're pressed against the pillows.

"Hmm, probably." He mutters softly and nibbles lightly on your earlobe. "Could be worse though." He sounds mildly amused and starts trailing softly biting kisses down your neck. You start groping under the pillows, you've no idea where your cell is but his should be in here somewhere. He tugs on your shirt slightly, the little nipping kisses becoming more softly sucking and gentle at the spot where your shoulder and neck meet. You find his cell eventually, it's just after nine o'clock, your sleep pattern is already fucked up it would seem. His hands are pushing your shirt up, you spare him a quick glance over your shoulder, he grins at you, the overly bright light of his cell makes it look mildly ridiculous. You find yourself snorting with laughter, turning on to your back and letting him pull your shirt over your head. He settles over you and kisses you softly, unhurried and thorough. "Fuck me?" He mutters softly, kissing you again.

"Hmm." You don't really respond to his, you suppose, question, it sounded like a question, his kisses make it _feel _like a question. You wrap one arm about his waist, your other hand cupping the back of his head, keeping the kisses between you soft and languid. He twists off of you, pressing his back against your side and starts hunting around in the pillow fortress.

"Ah-ha!" He produces your little bottle of lube, it looks like its contents have been severely depleted since you saw it last. You, once again, wonder just what he's been up to in your apartment. You move on to your side, lying behind him, ease one arm under his body and he glances back at you. "Like this?" You can't think of the last time you have sex like this, you nod vaguely, gazing down his bare back to his firm little ass, you'd never noticed till now but he's been naked this whole time. You awkwardly squirm out of your boxers, pushing them out from under the covers with one foot. He pops the cap on the lube, covers a couple of fingers and drops the bottle somewhere in amongst the pillow fort. He preps himself with irritating efficiency, he always forgets how much you enjoy watching him fingering himself, his long fingers moving in and out of himself, not that you can see much but the pictures in your mind are pleasant. You trail your hand down his back, down his arm to where two of his lube-slicked fingers are inside of him. Then move it back up his arm to fish around amongst the pillows, trying to find the bottle of lube, eventually locating it and coat a few of your own fingers, nudging one into him, beside his own. "Ah, fuck." He gasps, there's a big difference, in size terms, between his own fingers and yours. His are long, elegant things, tapered and slender, your own are broader, thicker, bigger in general, the addition of even one of your fingers seems to throw him. He tries to move his hand away from himself but you withdraw your finger first.

"Finish up." You murmur against his shoulder, moving closer to him, trapping his arm between you, using the lube on your fingers to coat your cock. The angle his arm is trapped at, has to be uncomfortable but he doesn't complain, keeps stretching his body open for your cock. When he deems himself ready, he reaches behind him, his hand groping for your cock, you chuckle softly and line yourself up with his hole, catching his hand and guiding it to your cock. "Slowly." He nods and eases his hips back, letting your cock enter him, once you're halfway inside of him, you take his hand, lace your fingers together, moving your joined hands to rest against his thigh and snap your hips forward, burying yourself inside his body. He makes a quiet, little pleased noise and brings your laced fingers to his lips, kissing yours softly. He reluctantly lets you withdraw your hand from his and you settle it on his hip, your other arm, trapped as it is under his body, you wriggle a little further around him so you can draw him closer, letting your newly freed fingers stroke his chest.

"You gonna move?" He asks you, mild amusement in his voice and his hole tightening around your cock.

"Yeah, yeah, gimme me a minute." You press several kisses to his shoulder, enjoying the feeling of him soft and pliant in your arms. You move in him slowly, taking your time to stroke every inch of his skin that you can reach, the comforter on your bed feels heavy, it hinders your movements, forces you to move even slower than your exhaustion would have. He matches the slow pace, rocking back against you, one hand against your ass, squeezing the flesh and trying to draw you closer to him. You move your leg so that it covers his, use the new position to force him closer to you, his hand skimming along your thigh, stroking your skin. "Okay?" You ask him softly, he nods and moans as you thrust into him, rubbing against his prostate firmly.

"Again." You keep your thrusts unexpected like that, slow and steady, interspersed with the odd randomly powerful one, drawing moans from him, making his body tighten around you. It's all soft and gentle, reflexive almost. Fucking slowly, like this, isn't something you've done in a long time, not really since you shared hotel rooms out on the hustle. It brings back hazy memories of fucking him in motels all over the country, of fucking a man much less broken down and weary. You wonder then what he's actually thinking about, is he fully focussed on the feeling of your cock moving in and out of him, of your hands as they hold him close and stroke his skin, the weight of your thigh and the press of your heel against him or is he thinking about the past too.

"Hey." You mutter softly against his shoulder, you can see his eyes are open, focussed on the backs of your hands as they stroke his chest and stomach.

"Hmm?" He moans softly, twisting his head slightly to get a better look at you.

"You okay?" You think it's a stupid question, he seems fine but you mean more than right now, you mean in general, is he more himself, is he getting better, is whatever drove him to you two weeks ago resolved or at least being better handled. He laughs softly, rocks his hips back against you.

"Good, great, _fabulous,_ in fact." He smiles, a big content, genuine smile, his body squeezing around your cock, making you gasp. "Fuck me." He sounds smug, you move slightly, getting at a better angle behind him and do as he asks. You fuck him as firmly and slowly as you can, watch over his shoulder as he works his cock, strokes at your pace. When he comes, it's with his head back against your shoulder, trembling and quiet, your own orgasm follows shortly and it hits you harder than you were expecting it to. The next thing you're aware of is his head against your chest, fingers stroking your skin gently, his sweaty hair sticking to your neck, in a mildly irritating fashion. "April has the weekend off." He sounds soft and sleepy; you can feel his lips moving against your chest as he talks. You're glad she took your advice and pushed for some time off, the girl needs it, the more you spoke to her whilst you were away, the more concerned you got for her. It'll be good for them to spend some time together, some time being all coupley and sweet, _alone_ together.

"You gonna take her home?" You ask him, absently attempting to bring order to the disarray that is his hair; you give it up as a lost cause and ruffle it back up. He chuckles softly and shakes his head. "C'mon, you're not making her hang out here again, Punkers."

"No, no, I'll take her back to my place." He mutters, squirming in your arms to rest on his forearms, hovering over you, a soft smile on his face.

"Good, was beginning to think you were never going home again." You cup his cheek, stroking the scruffy mutton-chop there. He shakes his head, his nose brushing against yours, kisses you gently and then wriggles back down your body slightly, tucking his head beneath your chin.

"I _am_ home."

* * *

******earthandblood**: Thank you very much! It's always good to hear new peoples thoughts on my work! I am very glad you thought AJ was written in a real person way, it's exactly what I was aiming for. Women in fiction, not even specifically fanfiction, can be done so horribly, it's why I was quite so very worried about writing her, your words were every welcome and I am very thankful for them.

**littleone1389**: I think the Batman part of that chapter is my favourite part... any excuse to mention Azrael! LoL

**alizabethianrose**: I kind of think that AJ is a good fit for Punk right now so I do hope that she's able to bond with Colt. The Joe shoot is one of my favourite Punk shoots... the whole belt mark story cracks me up every time. :D

_And we are done here. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to fave, follow, pm and review. I am very grateful. The whole Punk situation may still be up in the air but I can only hope that the scruffy little gitbag is getting the rest he needs. :D_

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


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